“No.” His lips pull warm in an admission that crackles honest down their headsets, the static not quite omitting the adoring edge of a man who'd found his life's passion. “And I hope I never see that day come.”

Higher and higher they inch. Below them Slateport beach stretches, sand gleaming gold in the sunshine and ocean sparkling like the stars rested upon its surface during the daylight hours.

People, Splashfest attendees, are but dots from their observation deck in the sky while beyond that, Slateport stands as a forgery of a silver mountainside. 

“See over there? North north west.” With adventure seeking eyes, Angelo points out to Elisabeth Fiorelli a landmark further inland. “Can just make out the mountain an' caves on route 103.”

Up here, in the peace and with the world so far away, it's as if all the terrors of Hoenn disappear - weightless.

Poor Mini Sunshine meanwhile, would shortly find that there is a surprise awaiting it, slumbering within the depths of sophisticated machinery.

Just before a wandering vine touches the tempting wall of buttons, a face briefly flickers onto the GPS unit screen. Angelo's secret co-pilot, a Rotom, giving the Sunkern a harmless thunderwave spark - a warning given on an electronic, Cheshire smile.

Angelo lets out a hearty laugh in a way that rings in the fond, nostalgic tune of witnessing a familiar sight. He’d seen his fair share of children doing the exact opposite of what they’d been asked to do and the recompense of their actions over the years.

His palm reaches over to give the mischievous seed a quick head ruffle. “Lesson learnt, trouble? Do as I say.”

The not as I do is left unsaid.